


Haunting

by chiiyo86



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Asthma, Dreams vs. Reality, Fever, Gen, Two-Ciels theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiiyo86/pseuds/chiiyo86
Summary: On a night of fever, someone is knocking at the window of his bedroom.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piscaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/gifts).



> Here is a silly last minute treat for one of your prompts that caught my eyes. Hope you enjoy it!

He couldn’t breathe. 

It was an all too familiar feeling, one he’d known for as long as he could remember. The weight on his chest, the desperate yearning for air, the fight of every instant to draw one more breath, and another, and another. He could never give up because giving up meant death. Death meant that you’d lost, and he hated to lose. He was a Phantomhive, after all.

Where was he? It felt like he was lying down. Lying down in his bed, of course; it must be nighttime. Thunder roared outside and rain drummed against the windows, a rhythmic sound loud as a shower of pebbles. Maybe it would shatter the glass panes, and the wind that he could hear howling through the trees would rush into the room, and take him away in its wake.

He was too hot, and he fought against the weight of the quilt smothering him. Too hot and he couldn’t _breathe_. There was no air left in the bed, he had to get out, _needed_ to get out. He tried to sit up, head spinning madly. 

“Young master, you shouldn’t try to get up. You’re very sick.”

A hand nudged his shoulder and he fell back against soft pillows. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw a dark silhouette hovering over him. For a moment he felt a startled surge of fear, until he recognized Sebastian.

“Se—Sebas—tian,” he wheezed out. “Is there—”

“Everything is fine, my lord,” the demon soothed. “It is but a mere storm, and you’re perfectly safe here in your room.”

He batted at the hand keeping him down, frustrated. It wasn’t the storm he worried about! He hadn’t been scared of thunder in years, since he was a silly child. It was the window—someone was knocking at the window and he needed to get to it.

“Try and get some sleep, master,” Sebastian said. “You will feel better in the morning.”

No! He did not need sleep, for sleep was an ambush lying in wait, a way for his mind to turn on him and attack him unaware. He had no defenses in sleep, and he still needed to get to the window. But Sebastian ignored his protests—unless he hadn’t voiced them?—and slipped out of the room like a soundless shadow. 

Left alone, he spent a few more minutes fighting for breath—one more, one more, one more. There was an incessant tap at the window, and surely it couldn’t just be the rain. Someone wanted to enter the room. Damn Sebastian! He was supposed to take care of that sort of nuisance, but one could only rely on oneself in the end. 

Getting out of bed was a struggle, as it seemed intent on swallowing him whole. The pillows, mattress, and quilt were a soft, unyielding mass keeping him trapped. When he finally managed to pull out he fell to his knees on the floor, his treacherous legs buckling under his weight.

_Tap-tap-tap._

“Coming,” he panted as he hauled himself to his feet.

His room was swarming with wide living shadows that danced across the walls. He jumped when it looked like one of them had leaped to his face, but then shook his head at his own foolishness. Shadows held no power; they were only the unsubstantial absence of light. He stumbled toward the beacon that was the brighter rectangle framed by the window. His head felt so heavy that he feared it would detach from his neck and roll on the floor. He was swaying on his feet like a boat on a raging sea, each step threatening to send him overboard. It was too cold in the room, and he couldn’t stop shivering. His bed didn’t seem such a bad perspective right now, but he had committed himself to a course of action and he mustn’t turn back now.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Behind the rain-splattered glass he could see a figure, its hand raised to knock. Lightning illuminated the room and the figure with it, and he gasped in recognition. 

“Open the window!” it said—no, _he_ said, his—his—“It’s cold and wet and scary outside!”

“Ci—” He snapped his mouth shut on the name, held back by an obscure sense of superstition. Name it, and it will disappear.

He opened the window—he was powerless to do otherwise—and a gush of wind and rain was hurled at his face, making him shut his eyes against the assault. When he opened them again the vision hadn’t vanished: there, perched on the windowsill, clinging to the frame, completely drenched from the rain, was his brother. 

“You’re dead,” he said in a breath, hard cold fact battling inside him against the painful bloom of hope. “You’re dead.”

The clear peal of his brother’s laughter competed with the rumbling thunder. “Fooled you, didn’t I? Let me in, it’s dreadful in this weather.”

He almost stepped aside to do so, obeying an instinct that ran deeper than conscious thought, but was held back by a nagging pull from his rational mind. He’d seen his brother die, hadn’t he? He remembered the altar, the grimacing masked man stabbing his ritual knife down, the rivulets of blood that formed little pools on the floor. Watching it had hurt too badly for the memory to be a figment of his imagination, as if his heart had been ripped off his chest. Oh, it was so hard to think right. His mind felt foggy and the thoughts trickled in one by one at a frustrating pace. He coughed, making his aching lungs strain. 

A cold hand cupped his cheek. “You’re sick again. I always hate it when you’re ill.”

He leaned into the touch, hating himself for his weakness. “I saw you die,” he said, trying not to let himself get distracted from his train of thoughts. “The man stabbed you on the altar. You died.”

The hand curled around his jaw, sharp fingernails digging into his skin—not enough to hurt, but enough to make his heart beat faster from a jolt of alarm. 

“And my sacrifice summoned your demon,” his brother said. “Would you say it was a fair trade?”

“I—no, no, of course not.” 

His ears were ringing; he was about to faint, but he stubbornly clung to consciousness. _Call Sebastian, you idiot!_ a voice told him at the back of his mind. His brother was dead; this was some sort of trick, a mirage, a ghost—something that couldn’t be trusted.

The hand travelled from his jaw to his hair, the caress tender, alluring. “You’re so tired, aren’t you? Such a weight on your shoulders. You were never meant to carry it at all.”

“I _have_ to.”

“Sshh. Why don’t you come with me?”

“It’s raining.” His protest came out rather weak and unconvinced. It wasn’t the rain he dreaded.

“I’ll protect you from the rain. Come out, little brother. Leave it to the adults.”

His breath rattling in his chest, he locked his mismatched eyes with his brother’s blue ones. What he dreaded was the awful longing that his brother’s voice triggered in him, the black hole his death had opened in his heart.

“No,” he said, and watched his brother’s eyes widen in surprise. “I won’t do that.”

“I _died_ for you,” his brother said sharply.

“And now I must live for myself,” he said, and shoved his brother off the windowsill. He hurriedly slammed the window shut, breathing hard, and then his vision went black. 

Sebastian found him in a heap on the floor, panting for breath and shaking so hard his teeth clattered from it. Water ran down on his face and he could taste salt on his lips.

“Young master! What are you doing out of bed?”

He closed his eyes and listened to the patter of Sebastian’s feet as the butler rushed to his master’s side. He felt himself be picked up, and Sebastian’s voice vibrated in his head: “Really, my lord, of all the foolish things to do. And you’re wet too. Why did you expose yourself to the rain? You’re going to make your fever worse.”

“I am Ciel Phantomhive,” he mumbled.

“What was it, my lord?”

“I am Ciel Phantomhive,” he repeated louder, more forcefully, but the end of the sentence dissolved into a coughing fit.

“Don’t try to speak, master,” the demon said. He was deposed on the bed, and as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness he heard Sebastian say, voice lilting with a hint of laughter, “The one and only Ciel Phantomhive.”


End file.
